by Cara Black
“At times one must bend like the willow branch to Allah’s will or stand firm like a rod of iron.”
Aimée studied Hamid as he spoke. Whether it was his manner, the brief facial tick scoring his lips, or her sixth sense, she doubted he wanted this infighting or this publicity. Hamid didn’t make a very good liar.
“Does the fact that your followers refer to you as a maghour, an ‘outsider,’ disturb you?” Aimde asked.
“We are all Allah’s children, some his disciples,” Hamid said simply.
“Forgive me,” Aimée said, catching Hamid’s gaze but keeping her head lowered. “How can you assure these sans’papiers that they will stay?”
“We await the minister’s action, secure in our belief.” Hamid’s dark eyes filled with pain, his breathing faltered. “The AFL’s aim remains the same. Mutual cooperation will solve this conflict.”
“Did you know Eugénie Grandet?”
“Forgive me, fatigue claims my efforts,” Hamid said.
Frustrated, she studied him. Hamid’s hollowed cheekbones creased his face. His lids were half closed, and the stark white below his pupils glowed eerily. Aimée watched Hamid’s eyelids flutter. Had he gone into a trance, or was he about to pass out from hunger?
She wanted to know more about his dealings with Eugénie.
“Hamid must reserve his strength for prayer. Please end your audience,” an aide said to them.
“I respect Hamid’s duties, but he agreed to this interview,” Yves said.
“Later. Now he must rest,” the aide shouldered his way toward them.
Reluctantly Yves stood, and Aimée followed suit.
“The Koran teaches the spirit how to live among men,” Hamid said to Yves, his voice fading. “A code of life, harming no brethren. You must tell people this.”
The aide waved Aimée and Yves back toward the vestibule. He stood guard, watching them leave.
“Not even five minutes for an interview,” Yves said, distressed. “He looked ill.”
“He’s weak,” Aimée said, pulling Yves aside. “But he’s covering something up.”
“You mean lying?” Yves said. “Imams have immunity, like priests do. They can be creative with the truth, and followers buy it. Reporters, like me, have problems with that.”
On their way out she saw a Berber woman with hennaed hands and callused bare feet, asleep against the water font. The woman’s mouth hung open, her tongue flicking, as if tasting the air as a snake does to find its way. Maybe I should do the same, Aimée thought, and discover who attacked me in the cirque and planted Sylvie’s bomb.
Suddenly the woman’s eyes batted open and she sat bolt upright, her frayed black caftan trailing on the floor. She glared at Aimée, then wagged her finger, a silver bangle outlined against her dark-skinned tattooed wrist.
“Hittistes,” she said, drawing out the first s into a hiss.
“Comment, Madame?” Aimée asked.
The woman muttered to herself. Yves tugged at her sleeve.
“Let’s go,” he said.
As Aimée walked past her, the woman emitted a piercing series of wails, bloodcurdling “you’you’you” ululations. From what she knew, Arab women in anguish or mourning did that.
Aimée knelt down on the cold stone and put her hand on the woman’s knee. Scars lined the woman’s weather-beaten arms.
“Tell me what you mean, please,” she said.
The woman spoke rapid and guttural Arabic. All Aimée caught were the words hittiste and nahgar, which the woman repeated over and over. She covered Aimée’s hand with her tattooed one, beat her heart with the other, then let go.
Outside, past the crowds, she turned to Yves. They stood across from the parked buses in Place Chevalier. Yves leaned his backpack on a stone stanchion, tucking his tape recorder and notebooks inside.
“Got a clue to what the woman meant?” Aimée asked.
“Hittistes are the young, unemployed men hanging out on the streets,” he said. “Holding up the walls in every bidonville as well as in Oran, Constantine, and Algiers.”
Aimée wondered if the hittistes composed the dissident faction who’d joined the church. Like Zdanine.
“And nahgar?
His mouth pursed in thought.
Aimée remembered his slim hips, the way he’d made her feel. Stop it, she told herself, pushing those thoughts from her mind.
“My grasp of Arabic is rudimentary,” Yves said. “But it’s something to do with humiliating people, abusing power.”
Had the Berber woman tried to tell her the hittistes were undermining the immigrants’ cause? “I thought the Algerian government promoted an official Islam compatible with socialist ideals. Or tried to.”
Yves shrugged.
“There’s a lot more going on here than a protest, isn’t there?” she asked.
“In Algeria,” Yves said, “the fundamentalist opponents charge Hamid’s group with running guns-for-drugs operations in Europe. They accuse him of being supported by the most repressive Islamic regimes in the Arab world.”
“But he’s not like that at all,” Aimée said. “The AFL sponsors adult education and food programs.”
Aimée felt in her jacket pocket for cigarettes. None. She paused by Yves at the corner of rue du Liban and found Nicorette gum in her pocket. Yves’s words made some kind of sense, but she wasn’t sure how. She popped a piece in her mouth and chewed furiously.
Yves continued. “Many think the fundamentalists’ broader goal is building umma islamiyya, an Islamic empire, countering the depraved West, which they see as doomed to hell even though they use it for asylum and access to media.”
“Should I take my pick, or do you have a preference for one theory?” she asked, pulling her jacket tighter against the cooling air. He certainly knew his subject, she thought, but he was a top journalist.
“Algeria’s in civil war,” Yves said. He pulled out a small pad and jotted some notes. “A quiet underreported war rarely highlighted on CNN. It’s a fight for power between the hard-line military and the strict Islamic forces to govern the country.”
Aimée nodded. That made sense.
“Les barbes, among others, fuel this war. But les barbes, the religious scholars, and preachers in storefront mosques adopt the white robe, skullcap and beard of the traditional mullah. The difference is in their fanaticism. The West brands it Islamic fundamentalism.”
“Does the Algerian government disavow les barbes?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Of course, they accuse us journalists of oversimplifying political and religious connections. Like the secular structured state pitted against religious opponents.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Yves,” she said. “But hear me out.”
Swift-moving clouds obscured the sun again, throwing them into shadow. Chimneys dotted the rooftops. She had an idea.
“What if Hamid lost internal AFL control?” she said. “Say a rebel fundamentalist faction splinters off for recognition and publicity. But Hamid bows to the faction so the cause isn’t lost—after all, he’s on a hunger strike and has principles—so the fundamentalists get media coverage, and Hamid gets the immigrant deportations halted.” Aimée shook her head, “I don’t think it’s that simple, events stack up wrong.”
“Too simple,” he agreed.
“Could the crisis here mimic what’s happening in Algeria?” she said.
“Nice observation,” Yves said and shrugged. “Or it could all be smoke and mirrors.”
Again smoke and mirrors.
Something ran unspoken between them. His wife must be taking up his time, she figured. She had the terrible feeling things with Yves led to a brick wall. A dead end. She wished she didn’t want so much for him to come and spend the night again.
Act smart. Much better to cut her losses and walk away. Don’t wait for him to say he’s returned to his wife.
She turned and said, “Yves, I’ve got to go.”
“Are you playi
ng hard to get, Aimée?” he said, grinning. “That will get you everywhere.” He pulled her close. She wished he hadn’t done that.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, struggling for words to express her feelings. Why couldn’t she say it? He kept rubbing her neck and being no help. Whatsoever.
A taxi screeched in front of them. Several correspondents and photographers yelled at Yves to hurry and get in if he wanted a ride to the airport. He kissed her hard.
Then he was gone.
He’d popped in and out of her life again. And she’d let him.
She went to the nearest café, set her bag down, and ordered a glass of vin rouge. Maybe it would help drown her indecision.
“Mademoiselle Leduc?” a voice with a light accent asked from behind her.
She turned to face Kaseem Nwar, smiling beside her at the counter. Several men and women stood there, and for a moment she couldn’t place where she’d met him. Then she remembered. He was more handsome than she recalled, in a long wool coat over a djellaba. As if it had been designed for him. The way he dressed revealed a pride in his heritage. She liked that.
“You probably don’t remember me,” he said, his smile turning sheepish. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Mais bien sûr, we met at Philippe de Froissart’s,” she said, saddened by the memory of her conversation with Philippe.
“You looked upset,” he said.
She gave him a small smile. “Anaïs was ill, things were difficult.”
“I know what you mean,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Philippe and Anaïs have been my good friends since the Sorbonne.”
Aimée made space for Kaseem at the bar, taking a sip of wine.
“Wine?”
He shook his head and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll nurse a Perrier.”
She’d forgotten that Muslims took no alcohol.
“Do you live in the area?” she said, wondering why she’d run into him here.
His look turned serious at her casual question.
“Please understand, I have no political affiliation with the AFL,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “But some of my ex-wife’s family claimed sanctuary, so I brought clothes and food. It’s important to help them, person to person.”
Aimée wondered if he could do more than that.
“Can’t you help them stay?” she said, noting the muted café light playing on his features.
“Not with the present law,” Kaseem shrugged, a very Gallic response. “My wife was French, but I’m naturalized. I can’t help them anymore. That’s the trouble.”
Kaseem’s mineral water arrived, and he paid for both their drinks with an assurance that commanded attention. Kaseem appeared at ease in many worlds yet was not pompous.
“Merci,” she said. She enjoyed standing in a café with an interesting man and talking. Face it, she admitted to herself, Kaseem wasn’t hard on the eyes. And he wasn’t rushing off to the airport.
“Tell me about your project involved with the humanitarian mission,” she said.
“Mostly I export and import,” he said, waving his long-fingered hand. “Life in the countryside is stark,” he said. “We’re doing all we can.”
As Kaseem spoke his eyes lit up, and he gave her his complete attention. As if her every thought mattered.
“With feet in both worlds, I’m just a conduit,” Kaseem said. “But I feel a sense of responsibility. Especially since I know Philippe, maybe I can help in ways others can’t.”
She remembered the military types among the trade delegation at Philippe’s house. Broaching the subject indirectly seemed the only way.
Aimée said, “My nephew’s going through an army stage,” she grinned. “You know boys. You wouldn’t know anyone in the military?”
Kaseem returned her smile. “Sorry, I’m just a merchant.”
He laid his arm on hers.
“Right now I’m worried about Anaïs,” he said, interrupting. “Philippe acts stoic, but you’re her friend. Please, I want to help. But I don’t even know where she is.”
“Makes two of us, Kaseem,” she said, glancing up at the café clock. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
He offered her a lift to her office. Why not? He exuded an ease with himself, an elusive quality she didn’t see in many men. Except Yves. But Yves was gone, and she liked Kaseem’s attention. En route Kaseem said he knew where to get the best falafel in Belleville, so they stopped and ate on the street.
“Call me paranoid, but either Anaïs doesn’t like me anymore or something’s happened,” Kaseem said as they stood munching their overflowing falafels and tossing crumbs to the pigeons. “She’s never home, doesn’t return calls.”
Aimée knew the feeling.
“Did something happen?” Kaseem asked. “Tell me; I don’t want to pester.”
“Philippe’s the one to ask, Kaseem,” she said.
At the curb on rue du Louvre, she turned to thank him. Kaseem responded with a lingering bisou on both cheeks. Nice. In fact, quite nice. Her cheeks burned all the way up the stairs.
AS SHE opened her office door, the phone was ringing.
“Allô,” she said, hitting the light switch with her elbow.
“Anaïs’s all shaken up,” Martine said, her voice low.
“Where is she?” Aimée tossed her bag on the desk, switched her computer on, and threw herself in the chair.
“Philippe’s put her in a clinic,” Martine said. “And for once he’s done the right thing.”
Aimée doubted that.
“Look, Martine, Philippe threatened me,” she said. “Sicked a gorilla on my tail to make sure I don’t investigate further.”
“He did what?’ Martine said, sounding more indignant than surprised.
“And threatened my business,” Aimée said, turning toward her oval window. Rain had started to prickle the glass fronting rue du Louvre.
“Philippe’s protecting his family,” she said.
“Martine, he’s hiding something,” she said. “He’s afraid.”
Over the phone Aimée heard Martine sigh.
“Anaïs wants you to find out what he’s hiding,” Martine said. “Don’t stop. I’ll talk to him.”
“After being beaten and shot at the Cirque d’Hiver and finding no leads, maybe he’s right.”
“Philippe did that?”
“My top suspect is an Algerian who has links to plastique,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“It’s a long story,” Aimée said, not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation.
“Condense it and tell me,” Martine said.
“Now you sound like an editor,” Aimée said.
But she did.
She told Martine about how she’d tried to find the phstique source via Samia.
“What about this General?”
“He likes magic, and he’s not nice.”
“Don’t think I’m not concerned,” Martine said, “but at least Anaïs is safe.”
Aimée felt there was more to what Martine said. “What do you mean, Martine?”
“Now that I’m spending time with Simone,” she said. “Maybe I want my own.”
Caught off guard, Aimée heard wistfulness in Martine’s voice. She’d never heard Martine talk like this. Disturbing.
“Attends, Martine, it’s worse than having a dog,” she said. “You have to make them eat, and the vet bills are much higher.”
Martine laughed.
“Martine, Philippe acted strange when he heard about Hamid and the hunger strikers,” she said, “Sylvie had one of his flyers.”
“So you think there’s some connection?” Martine asked.
“We’ll find out,” Aimée said. “Do you still have your friend in Sécurité sociale?
“He retired,” Martine said.
Too bad. She could have found information about the AFL.
“Anaïs mentioned she’d given Philippe an envelope.”
“I’ll
ask him. Look, Aimée, I’m helping take care of Simone. That’s all I can do for Anaïs,” Martine said, her voice pleading. “Find out what’s got Philippe by the balls, please. You can do this.”
“Get the goon off my tail,” Aimée said.
“D’accord,” Martine agreed. “You’re the only one I trust, Aimée. No matter what, I know you’ll come through. Please.”
By the time Aimée reached the crowded mouth of the Métro, she had a plan. She still hadn’t heard from Samia, but there was one person nearby whom she could ask about Eugénie.
Saturday Evening
THE DEAD HAD IT easy, Bernard thought, shuffling his files together on his office desk.
Dead easy.
But that wasn’t true. He wished it were. Outside his window, along the gravel paths, the trees’ shadows wavered and lengthened. He tossed the empty pill bottle in the trash—he needed more or he wouldn’t sleep.
Visions of his nounou, the caramel-faced Berber nursemaid who’d diapered and fed him, flashed in front of him. He saw her gold-toothed smile, warm and welcoming. Her eyes crinkling in laughter when he’d tickle behind her elbow on her soft, dark skin. How she’d save him the first of the season’s figs, swollen with seeds, and a fistful of golden white grapes from Lemta. He heard the hoarse notes of her song, one he’d never understood. The song, she’d said, told of the Atlas Mountains near her village, jagged, purple, and massive. And how the chergui, the dry and burning east wind, whipped the land and inflamed spirits.
His nounou had taught him games the nomad children played in the desert. For hours they’d sit in the cool turquoise-tiled courtyard under the whitewashed arches by the fountain, playing pebble toss and hide the waterskin.
And then the last vision that he’d tried to forget—his nounou’s head impaled on the fencepost of the Michelin factory, in a row by others accused of sabotage by the gendarmes. A cloud of black flies on her slack jaw revealing the gold tooth glinting in the sun, his mother’s screams. How his mother made them all run to the harbor. But there were no ships.
How could an illiterate woman who spoke a Berber dialect be a spy? he’d overheard his mother ask his stepfather over the dinner table years later. Every dinar nounou earned, his mother continued, she’d sent to her family in the village.
